Callback
by Super Vanilla Bear
Summary: A series of Supernatural one-shots. Open for requests!
1. Callback

**Author's Note:** I do not own the television show _Supernatural_ or any of its characters.

* * *

I wanted to take a moment to apologize for removing my requesting fic "Anything Goes." Lately, I have had a MASSIVE case of writer's block, and that includes much more than just SPN fics. I got an 84 on one of my essays for Comp II, and I feel like a major failure. I have no ideas, and nothing is coming to me. I deeply apologize to those who requested fics that I failed to write.

That being said, I want to make it up to all of you. This isn't a requesting fic per say, but it is me wanting to hear your ideas. What do you guys want to read? As always, I refuse to write slash, and you all obviously know I love H/C stories and whumping our Dean. But I need inspiration and to get back on the writing track. Depending on what ideas are thrown out, I may open an entirely new story altogether; it just depends.

However, this does come with some strings attached, unfortunately. I'm not going to lie to you guys, it may be a few days (possibly even a week) before I post the first story. I swear it's not because I'm being difficult; like I said, I have huge writer's block. It may take a while for the words to actually form. I seriously think I burned myself out writing daily throughout winter into summer.

I have an upcoming trip to Tennessee as well, which comes from October 23 until November 2 (a SPN 32nd anniversary!). During that time, I will not update either. Needless to say, I am hoping and shooting for posting at least one story before I leave. If that doesn't happen, I am so incredibly sorry. I will not drop this one. Even if it takes months to find some writing bone in my body, I will leave it up.

A few of you may be wondering why I have chosen to post it now instead of wait until after my vacation. I WANT and NEED to write something fictional. I can't stand not writing, and these last few months have been crazy boring without it. Every now and then, I get bursts of ideas that lead nowhere, and I need to train myself to be able to do what I did from February to May in "A Bunch of Sick and Hurt Dean" again.

I promise not to quit this. But I need your guys help.

Let me know what you all are interested in me writing!

Either click the review button, or message me!

Thank you all so much again!

And, yes, posted below is what I wrote for "Anything Goes." I couldn't think of anything else...

* * *

 _October 6, 1991_

Sam is pissing in a damp corner.

As if this "rest stop" isn't bad enough...

Now, he has to squirt his foul liquids all over the brick walls. The alley is nearly pitch black with the exception of a measly light overhead that is just bright enough to cast an eerie glow over the eight year old. His pee comes in a firm stream, and Dean takes this opportunity to wipe at the dust caking his jeans. They need to keep going. Dad's gonna be mad, and he knows that's all his younger brother is thinking about.

"You done yet?" Dean asks. He tucks his hands into his jacket pocket.

He's fingering the gun when Sam turns back around, gulping with tears glistening in his eyes.

"Where're we going?" Sam questions.

"Not sure. Maybe here?"

Pee-infested corners. A bird chomping on a used condom instead of the French fries littering the old cobblestone. Dark. Cold. Smelly. Good choice. But they're on the run, and he figures that a seemingly abandoned alley in the middle of western Illinois is alright, especially considering how low on energy he is. Sam is wilting to his right, his eyes about to droop closed while standing up. Yep. Here it is.

"No way!"

"Why? What's wrong with this?"

Sam shrugs, glancing back down at the ground.

Dean huffs and scrubs a hand down his face. An eight year old should not have to deal with this. If he hadn't come to school with that bruise uncovered during gym class, none of this would have happened. He should have went the extra mile to cover it with makeup or not dress out period, but he was on the brink of failing in the first place after he broke his arm two months ago. He couldn't participate for seven weeks...

And it's how his school counselor got involved and managed to get them "removed from their bad situation." Dad doesn't hit. And, when he does, it's because Dean deserves it. And now he and Sam are on the run for his mistake, and he knows he should have listened to Dad. Guilt is eating away at his muscles and veins, and his blood is seemingly pouring out into his system. He can't even imagine how Sam is feeling.

It's just past midnight, and most kids should be fast asleep in anticipation for the day tomorrow. But Sam and Dean Winchester are settling down in an alley on an old sleeping bag they stole from some store two towns back. They're on their way to Iowa, where they last saw their father. Hopefully he'll still be there. Dean doesn't even have enough money for a pay phone, and it's not exactly like Dad would answer anyway.

"Dean," Sam says tentatively.

And the older Winchester stares up into his baby brother's wet hazel eyes and knows that he owes him more than this. He's Sammy's protector. He pulled him out of that fire, and Dad gave him this responsibility. There's nothing more important to him than his safety and well being. Even though the guilt is literally eating him alive for getting them into this situation, Dean Winchester decides it's do or die trying.

He's not going to let his little brother down. He'll get them to Dad somehow.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Thank you all from the bottom of my heart!


	2. It's Not That Bad, Sammy

**Author's Note:** I do not own the wonderful television show _Supernatural_ or any of its characters. I seriously wish I did, though.

* * *

Zana Zira, I have half of your first sick Cas prompt written! It's just not quite finished or up to my standards yet. I'm so sorry for the wait! And I also apologize to everyone else who is still awaiting their request! I'm trying to get them finished.

But I have something that I personally wrote that I want to post on here. It's a gift to you all due to my lack of writing and posting. Like I said, I haven't written anything in quite some time, so I am rusty, and it does probably suck. Still, though, I hope you all get some enjoyment out of it. I am going to keep writing the requests I have now, but I want to post some of my own stuff too. I hope that's okay with you guys! =)

This one-shot takes place some time during the following episodes: "Wendigo, Born Under a Bad Sign, Jus in Bello, Metamorphosis, My Bloody Valentine, ...And Then There Were None, Adventures in Babysitting, Everybody Hates Hitler, Do You Believe in Miracles?, The Executioner's Song, and Baby." It goes from season one all the way up until season eleven; it's just a little something I thought of this morning.

* * *

 _It's Not That Bad, Sammy_

* * *

 _November 6, 2005_

"It's not that bad, Sammy," Dean manages to mutter through clinched teeth, hissing as his brother proceeds to poke at his obvious injuries. Blood is dripping into his eye from where he accidentally tugged at the bandage too hard in the shower, and Sam has the job of stitching it back up. Only seven in total. He's definitely lucky; that's for sure. But the meds sting like a son of a bitch, and he's ridiculously close to trembling from exhaustion.

Sam shakes his head, needle and thread clutched tightly in his hand. "Dude, you could barely stand."

The younger Winchester has been in the company of his stubborn older brother for exactly a week now, and it seems as though Dean has reverted into even more of an introvert than he used to be. Before Sam left for Stanford, his brother was beginning to come out of his shell more each day. Sure, he has always been snarky and possessed a "give 'em hell attitude," but, between the lack of Sam and Dad, Dean seems to have gotten a little too used to patching himself up after a rough hunt.

"I'll be alright," Dean mumbles, rubbing his eyes sleepily with his fists, resembling an overly tired toddler.

Sam nods and tugs the blankets over his brother's chest. "Get some rest."

* * *

 _February 8, 2007_

It takes hours before Dean finally pulls over. The burn on Sam's arm is driving him batty, but it's the continuous moans and groans emanating from his brother that worries him the most. The left side of his face is almost caved in with bruises caused by Sam's fists, and he hasn't dared to move the shoulder on the same side in hours. He's shivering even in the heat of the Impala, and his eyes get closer and closer to shutting.

"I'll go check us in," Sam says.

The only response he receives is a painful looking nod.

It doesn't take long for them to settle into their shitty room for the night. Mildew on the walls. Black mold in the shower. Scent of wet dog hanging loosely in the air. Dean collapses wordlessly on to the bed, holding on to his shoulder carefully. Sam asks his brother if he wants to shower first, but he's snoring before he gets an answer. He doesn't have much memory of tonight. Doesn't exactly know what happened.

The hot water soothes Sam's aching muscles, but he thinks of his brother the entire time he's in there. He needs to make sure he's okay; he wonders how much of his trust in him has been breached by this. By the time he gets out of the bathroom, Dean is tossing and turning with a death grip on his shoulder. He's not asleep; in fact, his green eyes are wide open and bloodshot to hell. Sam's heart rate triples, panging into his chest.

And that's when he sees the blood.

"Dean, what the hell happened?" His brother flinches away from his voice. "Did I do this to you?"

The older Winchester shakes his head. "'s not that bad, S'mmy. Nothin' I can't handle."

And Sam grips at his jacket, maneuvers him out of his soiled and ripped t-shirt, and gasps.

"Dude, where's the bullet?"

He shakes his head, breathing heavily. "Jo took it out 'lready."

Holy shit. He shot his brother. Tears swell up in Sam's eyes, and he immediately begins to sort through his panic.

Dean grabs his wrist. "Relax... It's not that bad..."

And then he promptly passes out.

* * *

 _February 21, 2008_

Ruby leaves. Sam has a few stray tears forming in his eyes. Dean leans back against the pillows. Sighs. Runs a hand through his still damp hair with his uninjured hand. They killed them. Every single one of them. And their efforts, their good, genuine efforts, mean absolutely nothing. Nancy was just a kid. Hadn't even done the big wiggle yet. Hadn't had a chance to explore her sexual side, which Dean assumes would've been wild.

"We should get going," Sam whispers.

And Dean knows he's right. If they stay here much longer, the demons could come back, despite the fact that they're over a hundred miles from the blown to hell police station. But he feels queasy and exhausted and wants to sleep off killing however many people. He tried. Sam tried. They both did, but apparently it was stupid, and they were meant to die anyway. Destiny sucks ass; he decided that a long time ago.

"Dean?"

"One more night..." he mumbles, covering his eyes with his hand.

He hears Sam get up from his bed. He shakes his socked foot. "C'mon, man. We gotta go."

The older Winchester nods, but his attempts to get up fall short. He's out of breath and gripping for his inhaler hidden in his worn out jeans. The room spins, and, for a split second, his vision goes entirely black. He feels Sam grip at his right shoulder, trying to steady him. Hears murmured curses. Propped up against headboard. Feels cold cloth wiping down his face and the back of his neck.

Sam leaves, and Dean has a chance to regain his composure.

Fucker tosses a sling in his lap. Creaks open his eyes.

"Oh, c'mon! It's not that bad, Sammy."

* * *

 _October 9, 2008_

When the reach their motel room, Dean is zonked out in the passenger seat of his beloved baby. Sam feels terrible for waking him up, but Dean's face needs to be cleaned and made sure there are absolutely no pieces of glass stuck in his skin. His eyes droop with each step to the door, and Sam feels all of his brother's weight being pressed on to him. Damn, he must be really wiped out.

Not that he shouldn't expect that, though. Dean is still pretty fresh from Hell and hasn't been sleeping the best lately. Often times, Sam finds him dressed in the same clothes as the day before, sipping whiskey and playing on the computer. He doesn't like to be alone in the dark, a characteristic Sam couldn't even fathom at first. A visit downstairs has turned his larger than life big brother into a little boy who's afraid of the dark.

And that's fucking scary to Sam.

Dean is ripped jeans and lame comebacks. He's the one who taught Sam how to tie his shoes and count to one hundred at the age of three. He was there for every sporting event, every party, every time Sam could ever think about needing him. And to see him in such a state of vulnerability is strange for him to think about. Dean is not the same man he was a year ago, and Sam's not sure how he's going to come back from that.

Inside the motel room, it's warm, and Sam starts sweating as he sews his brother back together.

"Cut it out, S'm... 's not that bad..."

He, despite his worries, can't help but smile.

* * *

 _February 11, 2010_

Heat is radiating off of Dean by the time Sam discovers him holed up in the bathroom. He's alarmingly pale and quivering as he wraps himself around the toilet to expel what little he has eaten in the past weeks. Sam tries to rub his back, but Dean instantly flinches away, and the younger Winchester can't exactly blame him. Demon blood. That was his weakness tonight with Famine. Broken trust. Again.

"'s not that bad, S'mmy... Le'me 'lone."

Sam shakes his head, even though his brother can't see it. "No way, dude. You gotta let me help you."

And he sees the broken faucet he was chained to earlier. The bloodstains he didn't suck, lick, or slurp up from those last two demons. The bloody handprint on the bathtub Dean is hanging dangerously close to. Knows he screwed up. Knows how broken down his brother is on the inside. And knows how hard it's going to be to help him when he's delirious with fever and shaking with exhaustion.

After Dean finishes, Sam watches him collapse against the wall, plaid shirt beyond soiled and hair matted to his shiny forehead. The cut that required eleven stitches from earlier is bleeding slightly from where one stitch must have torn, but he isn't focusing too hard on that right now. The younger Winchester scoots himself to where he's shoulder to shoulder with his brother.

"I'm sorry, Dean. I didn't have any control over it."

But Dean isn't crying or upset or showing any signs of emotion.

He gulps before speaking. "'s okay. Not your fault."

* * *

 _March 4, 2011_

Dean's trembling beneath a thick mound of blankets by the time Sam returns to the motel room with groceries in hand. They lost their grandfather today, but, honestly, who gives a flying fuck at this point? He's so damn tired. And between that and Sam scratching away at the damn wall in his head, it's enough to send the older Winchester over the edge. He hasn't slept in what seems like years, and he wants to just forget about all of this.

"Hey," Sam says quietly. "Got you some dinner."

He shakes his head. "Not hungry, but thanks."

Sam sits down on the side of his bed, causing Dean to scooch over a bit. "Want to tell me what's bothering you?"

"Nothin'."

"Uh huh. Dean, you've been my brother my whole life. I can tell when something's wrong."

"Shut up, Sammy. It's not that bad."

"So something is up?"

Jesus. Such a freaking brat, this kid. "I've got a killer headache, and I just want to go to sleep. There. Happy, Florence?"

Sam sighs. "Yeah, whatever. Goodnight, dude."

* * *

 _January 6, 2012_

Tired. Cold. Achy. Three things he presumes his brother is feeling right now, especially due to his frightening lack of sleep. Frank informed him after their hunt that Dean had all but collapsed in a swiveling chair and was dead to the world for fourteen hours, but, judging by the way his brother is acting now, he definitely needs some more rest.

Dean is curled up in a ball on the queen-sized bed they'll be sharing tonight, eyes fluttering open and closed. The blankets are pulled up to his shoulders, and Sam can feel him shivering from here. Outside, it's snowing. Hard. Fat, fluffy flakes literally drown the Impala, and he knows they'll be here for at least a couple of days, which is perfect because Sam knows his brother needs to get back on his feet.

"You're breathing down my neck. Whatever it is, it's not that bad," Dean says, barely above a whisper.

Sam kisses his heated forehead, despite the fact that his brother immediately wipes it away. "Just go to sleep, you big baby."

* * *

 _February 7, 2013_

Dean gets sick two days after they officially move into the Men of Letters Bunker. At first, Sam finds him with his knees pulled up to his chest in the study, head resting on his legs. It looks terribly uncomfortable, and, if he were to leave his brother like that, he would have a crazily sore neck in the morning. Instead, Sam carries him, yes carries him, back to his new memory foam mattress that he's barely stopped talking about.

The next morning, Dean's nothing but coughs and a runny nose. Face pinched and eyes glassy. He bundles himself beneath an electric quilt Sam found in an otherwise vacant hall closet. Tissues are scattered on the floor beside their leather couch, and the younger Winchester grimaces at how pathetic his older brother looks, along with the nasty Kleenexes littering their living space. At this point, a fever is an absolute given.

Sam approaches him. He's half asleep in front of the TV. Breathing heavily, congestedly.

"Time for some more meds," he announces, earning a bitch face from Dean.

"Not bad enough for medicine..." he grumbles.

"You running a fever; that's every cause for medicine."

Dean swallows the NyQuil at the seven in the evening with no more complaints.

Sam ruffles his hair, grabs a blanket for himself, and settles down at the other end of the couch with Dean's feet propped up on his lap.

* * *

 _May 20, 2014_

"'s n't that b'd, S'mmy... Pr'mise..."

Tears pour down Sam's cheeks as Dean fights to remain conscious.

"Dean, stay with me, man!"

He's desperate. So desperate. He needs Dean to stay awake. He's gotta get him to the hospital. He's so damn heavy leaning against him, and he can feel his pulse becoming weaker and weaker beneath his cupped hand. He taps him on his bruised cheek, choking back a vicious sob that threatens to swallow him whole. Sam's breathing is erratic and unstable, and he's sure he's going to die along with his brother.

"I'm proud of us."

And then the whole world just stops. Collapses in on itself.

* * *

 _February 19, 2015_

It's no surprise to Sam that Dean practically stops talking, and moving, after the ultimate showdown with Cain. His brother is still fighting the Mark, rationalizing between good and evil as he internally argues with himself. Dean has been soaking up time in his bedroom, glued to the TV and barely acknowledging the outside world. It's been two whole days, and Sam doesn't think Dean's said more than three words to him since.

He carefully creaks open his brother's bedroom door to find him putting on a clean long sleeved shirt. His back is marred with nasty blue and purple bruises, and he's bleeding slightly from cuts he most likely doesn't even know he has. His jeans are sagging off of his body. And he grabs the gun on the nightstand as soon as he hears Sam's unexpected entrance. Puts it down, though, once he realizes it's just Sam.

"Hey," Sam says quietly.

Dean nods. "Hey." Takes a seat on the edge of his bed as he puts on wool socks.

"You're... Um, bleeding," Sam tells him.

He shrugs. "Not that bad."

Sam doesn't feel like pushing any further. Between nearly losing his brother again and the crippling exhaustion they're both pinched beneath, he just nods too. "Wanna watch a movie?"

Dean doesn't respond.

* * *

 _October 28, 2015_

"You need to let Cas fix you up," Sam says the minute they enter the Bunker.

Dean places his duffel down the second they walk through the door, wincing at the pain in his right shoulder. "Yeah, whatever." He wants a hot shower and to drown out the physical agony with copious amounts of alcohol, but he has a funny feeling Sam won't allow him to do either of those things. Sam grabs his hand from behind and forces him to turn around. "What do you want, Sasquatch? Haven't you seen enough of me?"

"You need to let Cas fix you."

He rolls his eyes. "It's not even that bad, Sammy. I can handle it."

"I guess that explains why you're limping."

"You're limping too!"

"And I'm going to have Cas work his mojo on me. Why won't you do the same?"

He shrugs.

"So, what, you just love being in pain 24/7 now?"

"Can we please drop it, dude? I'm tired."

"No," Sam says. "I'm not going to drop anything until you let someone help you."

Under an hour later, Dean's limping is gone, the cuts on his face have vanished, and the deep bruises on his hips and around his rip cage have disappeared. Sam finds him completely conked out in his bed with _Orange is the New Black_ playing in the background. Cas is curled in a tight ball on top of the covers next to him, and it seems as though his brother is finally getting some much needed rest.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Yeah, sorry that ending sucked. Feel free to leave a review! Thank you so much for reading! =)


	3. Zana Zira (I)

**Author's Note:** Sadly, I do not own the amazing television show _Supernatural_ or any of its characters.

* * *

Thank you all so much for your positive feedback! I love you guys! =)

Two in one day because I know I so owe you guys for my lack of updates!

Okay, I'm sorry if this is a complete sack of crap.

Zana Zira requested: "Sick!Cas set in season 9, trying to make his way back to the bunker after the angels fell. It's November and the weather has been cold, so he is suffering from the flu. He doesn't realize what's wrong, though, and thinks that the cough, chills, congestion, and nausea are just part of being mortal. When he finally finds a payphone and calls Dean to come get him, it's pouring rain and his flu has turned into pneumonia.

Dean comes and picks him up, and he and Sam get him warm and nurse him back to health at the bunker, keeping him bundled up in blankets and feeding him things like soup that are easy on his stomach (Dean's first attempt at feeding him Chinese takeout did NOT agree with him) and overall just fuss over him and make sure he knows he's welcome in their home."

I can't tell you how excited I am to write this prompt! It's amazing!

Um, and I added sick Dean just because...

* * *

 _Zana Zira (I)_

* * *

 _November 17, 2013_

It's dark outside. Castiel never noticed just how dark the night sky became. Most nights, he has to rely solely on his eyes, seeing as he doesn't own a flashlight. As he trudges throughout the street of some random city in the United States, he notices how heavy his limbs are becoming and how achy his feet are with each individual step. He associates this with what his friends would call fatigue, which he's witnessed multiple times.

Fatigue constitutes when Sam passes out his forehead glued to the table, laptop wide open with his fingers still on the track pad. It's those times when Dean takes an entire day out of the wrecked schedule that is their lives to focus on slumbering, rather than hunting monsters. It's those times when he's seen the Winchesters, sometimes ill or injured, curl up in each other's arms or on his chest for comfort and warmth.

And Castiel really wants some of that comfort and warmth right now. His first human experience was, truly, learning how to breathe. Most times, he would forget to exhale, holding in hot air until his cheeks reddened, leaving him quite dizzy. He's used to his vessel's human qualities, but Jimmy is long gone, meaning Castiel is now the permanent resident within his skin and bones. And now he has to breathe.

And urinate and defecate and brush his teeth. Nothing comes naturally, and he wishes Sam and Dean were here to help him out. He doesn't know what happened to them, considering Sam's state late in the trials and that they were attempting to shut the Gates of Hell. But he knows they failed at that last bit because he's run into many demons that are interested in the rouge, fallen angel Castiel who slaughtered Heaven's mightiest.

Of course, that happened a while ago, relatively speaking. He's still praying for it though in different ways. But he's more than willing to just drop off the face of the earth in the Winchester bunker. That is, if he can ever arrive there. Truth is, he's moving pretty slowly; his human body can only take so much these days. Now that he understands what exhaustion feels like, he's realizing that humans are incredibly vulnerable.

He takes a look around at the homeless people surrounding him. All of their dinners came from a local dumpster, and, yet, they're talking, laughing, and possibly having a pleasant evening. He can't help but notice the fragility in that, though. These people have nothing and are riddled with diseases; there may not be anything else left out here for them, and this may be all they ever have. There's something so depressing about that.

Castiel wishes he were with Sam and Dean. They would help him out with the human concepts he has yet to discover or master, and they could "show him the ropes." He's tired of being cold and having to sleep in strange places. He wants to be able to urinate in a decent bathroom instead of the wilderness. He wants to eat a hot meal... Maybe something a bit more substantial and tasty than chicken from the garbage.

He tells Fred, the man with a sucker stuck in his burly beard, that he will see him in the morning, and he heads off to a damp corner inhabited by three others; he's learned it's not good to sleep quite alone out here. Castiel shrugs off his coat and uses it as a blanket. He's unaware of the time, but it's dark out. And it's cold out. So, he's going to take this opportunity to hopefully sleep off some of his worries.

* * *

 _November 18, 2013_

It's beginning to rain. Drops soak through Castiel's coat as he coughs harshly into his thin sleeve, noticing how much pressure there is on his chest. He wraps his arms around himself, hugging some of the remaining warmth he possesses back into his body. He may have eaten dinner last night, but there's a lump in his throat that keeps growing with each passing moment, and, if he's honest with himself, he doesn't feel well.

He wonders if this is how Sam and Dean feel all the time. No wonder why Dean is cranky and Sam is moody. Between his nose pouring all over the place and his head pounding viciously into his skull, it's a wonder his friends are ever in decent mental atmospheres. Castiel has witnessed both of the Winchester brothers in an ill state before, but this certainly isn't how it feels to be human constantly... right?

If this is humanity, then how is he going to survive?

Sam and Dean are trained to adapt to this cold, harsh environment, but Castiel is an ex-angel of the Lord. If this is humanity, then, to put it lightly and as Dean says, he's screwed. Castiel can't imagine his entire existence being summed up by meals from the garbage and sleeping next to strangers who could stab him in his sleep. He wants real food so badly, and he desperately needs to rest.

The ex-angel drifts a bit further into the town. He has no idea where he is, but he does pass a sign that says "Three Rivers." Perhaps that's the name of this place. It's beautiful. Victorian styled houses and shops, accompanied with a brisk fall breeze and red leaves scattering across the blacktop roads. If Castiel didn't feel so poorly, he would walk around and get a better look at this small, quiet community.

And that's the moment he spots a payphone. He fumbles for loose change in his pocket, totaling up to a dollar. How much time does this give him? He remembers having a cell phone, which Dean paid for and didn't go by "minutes." Castiel isn't completely unsure of the human lifestyle, especially when it comes to certain technology. Often times, the way the Winchesters chose to get in touch with him was through the phone.

He quickly dials Dean's cell phone, coughing wetly into the air. His breath comes out visible and in ragged puffs. He massages his chest for a bit of comfort. "Hello?" Castiel's eyes brighten and widen when he finally hears the older Winchester's voice. He sounds half asleep and completely exhausted, but it's Dean. He'll be okay now. He just has to, somehow, get to the Men of Letters bunker in Kansas.

"Dean," he punctuates quickly.

"Whoa, Cas," Dean says. "Where the hell have you been?"

He sighs, scrubbing a hand down his stubbly face. "There seems to have been an issue when you and Sam tried to close the Gates of Hell. I... I'm not an angel... not anymore..."

"Cas, where are you?"

"I believe some place..." He coughs once more. "Called Three Rivers... Dean, I don't feel well."

"Iowa? Damn, man. Sit tight. It's gonna take a while, but I'm comin' to get you."

And Castiel has never felt more relief in his entire life as a human.

* * *

It takes about eight hours before Castiel sees the black Impala. He's been perched in a corner across the street from a bank, watching the time on the clock tick by. His knees shake as he fumbles with the door handle, which Dean ends up scooting across to open anyway. Inside, the Impala is warm, so warm and toasty. Castiel coughs and sputters and hacks and is immensely grateful when Dean produces some tissues.

"Jesus, dude." A warm hand on his back. He missed the Winchesters. "Let's get you home."

He nods, but he can't manage to say anything. His throat seems like it's been lit on fire, and, unfortunately for him, he knows exactly what that feels like. Plus, the car is so comfy, and Dean pulls out this blanket from the backseat and manages to cover him up. It no longer matters what happened before or what's going to happen next; Castiel is just glad that he finally gets to go be with his friends.

* * *

 _November 19, 2013_

"Where the hell were you, Dean? You nearly gave me a freaking heart attack!" Sam shouts, too loud for Castiel's fragile and seemingly swollen ears. He coughs, and this gooey gunk manages to come up. What surface did he just cough into? And then he opens his hurting eyes. Dean's carrying him, blanket and all. And they're in the garage of the Men of Letters bunker...

"I left a note, dude," is all Dean says.

He hears Sam sigh. "You're sick, man. You shouldn't have driven for, like, sixteen hours straight."

"Had to go pick up Cas. Kinda isn't doing too well." And he feels Dean motion down to him.

"Yeah, well neither are you. C'mon. You both need to get in here."

* * *

Castiel finds himself bundled up on wonderfully soft mattress. He has no energy to move, and his desire to stay here for the rest of his human existence is prominent and overwhelming. He nuzzles deeper into the pile blankets and winces as he coughs harshly into his pillow. His chest is killing him, and he wants to fall back asleep so badly. But, still, he's extremely happy to be in the bunker with Sam and Dean.

"Hey, dude." He jumps at the voice. "Oops, sorry." Dean's voice is hoarse and scratchy.

"Sam said you are not well. You should be resting."

"'m not the one with pneumonia, Cas. Sam is just overreacting, as usual."

"Not overreacting, asshole." And then Sam enters the room. "How're you feeling, Cas?"

He makes an attempt to sit up so he can talk to his friends, but his body protests wickedly. He coughs into a wadded up tissue that Sam holds for him since his hands are buried beneath the comforter, and he feels Dean sit on the other side of the bed, placing his hand on his back. He hears Sam make a remark about a breathing treatment and getting his temperature down, but Castiel just wants to sleep.

"Dean, c'mon. We gotta go find more meds, especially if you're now suddenly well enough to fight me about it."

Castiel rolls back over, now facing the older Winchester.

"N'thanks, Sammy. 'm good here."

And both boys fall fast asleep.

* * *

 _November 20, 2013_

"Chinese food is the bomb, Cas. You'll love it."

Abruptly, there's a Styrofoam container shoved in his hands, which he then places on his blanketed lap. Watching Dean eat tentatively and nervously makes Castiel's skin crawl. His friend has dark smudges beneath his green eyes, and his hair is standing up in every direction. He's wearing a dark grey hoodie that has to belong to Sam, and his wool socks, which he thinks may also be Sam's, are barely on his feet anymore.

"I don't know. It smells funny."

"That's 'cuz it's made with cat."

He scrunches up his face and glances back down at the chicken and rice on his lap. "I think I'll pass."

"Quit bothering him, Dean," Sam says from his position at the kitchen table.

"You know," the older Winchester says over the top of the couch, "you're really starting to get on my nerves today."

Sam shuts his laptop. "You get on my nerves everyday, Dean."

"You get on my nerves everyday, Dean," he mimics in a childish whisper before shoveling another piece of chicken into his mouth.

* * *

It's much later on in the evening, and Castiel still isn't feeling all that well. His body is extremely and unpleasantly sore, and his coughing only seems to have worsened. It's a deep, low, gurgling hack that comes from his stomach instead of his chest. And his stomach. Geesh. He isn't sure what's going on in there, but he knows something isn't quite right. But Dean is asleep practically on top of him, and he doesn't know where Sam is.

"Sam?" he questions.

"Yeah, Cas?" Well, it didn't take long to find him. At least that's good.

"I think there's something wrong with my stomach."

Sam approaches the couch, chuckling slightly, presumably when he gets a decent look at Dean resting peacefully on his shoulder. "What makes you say that?"

"I feel... well, I feel..."

And then something horrible happens.

This orangish red and chunky goo erupts from him. Dean pounces off of him instantly and, instead of just scooting to the other end of the couch, he jumps up and goes to get... something. Castiel is too busy having his stomach ripped from his body and his throat singed and burned and his head exploding from moving. "Holy shit," he hears Sam say. And then there's yet another warm hand on his back he hopes doesn't budge an inch.

He's asleep before he knows what happens next.

* * *

 _November 21, 2013_

"Get that thing away from me, Sammy."

"Y'know, you're the only person I've ever met who is still this stupid when they're walking around with a 103 degree fever."

"It's a curse."

"Yeah, no shit."

"Hey, I think he's waking up."

Castiel's eyes pop open. Sam has a thermometer in his hands, and Dean is standing over him with a blanket draped around his shoulders, hair mussed and cheeks tinged red. "What happened?" He coughs immediately after and nearly chokes on his own saliva. "I still don't feel well..." he murmurs.

"You kinda tossed your cookies," Sam informs.

"But I didn't have any cookies," he says.

Dean shakes his head. "You threw up."

Castiel blinks. "I threw up. What does that mean?"

"It's just something unpleasant. But now we know you can't have Chinese when you're sick."

Castiel coughs again and shivers harder against the blankets he's wrapped up in.

"Alright," Sam says, clapping his hands together. "You two need to sleep."

* * *

 _November 22, 2013_

The broth is warm and soothes his sore throat.

Sam and Dean say he can live here with them.

He feels loved.

The Winchester brothers, Sam in the recliner and Dean next to him on the couch, are bantering back and forth about whatever show they're watching on the TV. There's a bowl of soup in Castiel's lap, a cup of coffee in Sam's hand, and the remote clutched tightly in Dean's grasp. The three of them, right here and right now, are all that matters in the world to the ex-angel.

And he figures this is what being human is all about.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** I hope you enjoyed it! Thank you all for reading! =)


	4. When the Tides Change

**Author's Note:** I do not own the amazing television show _Supernatural_ or any of its characters. But I really wish I did. Don't we all?

* * *

Well, here we are with another installment of "Callback!" As always, I'm sorry for how long it takes me to update these days. My writer's block is getting a little better, especially since I was able to write this within a matter of hours. These days, though, I write a couple thousand words and then am unable to come up with anything else for weeks. Hopefully, with time and more writing, this will get better.

I was thinking of a possible formula for this story. I have a lot of story prompts saved on my computer, just one-shots, that I would love to write. I'm thinking of alternating between requests and my own ideas. It may not be alternating every other chapter, meaning I may post two or three of my own and then a request. Really, at this point, I could go any way, haha. Since I wrote "A Bunch of Hurt and Sick Dean" based entirely off of you lovely readers, I figured it would be a good way for me to get my own creative juices flowing with prompts that I come up with as an exercise.

So, this time it's a prompt I came up with!

I hope you enjoy it, and, as always, thank you so much for reading! =)

* * *

 _When the Tides Change_

* * *

 _February 15, 2013_

Dean's room in the bunker shouldn't surprise Sam, but, somehow, it does. It's immaculate, leaving the younger Winchester calculating when exactly his brother became such a neat freak. Years of sharing motel rooms have made him immune to gawking at Dean's dirty socks in the sink every morning; this, however, is weird. He isn't even quite sure what his approach should be. He wonders if Dean even realizes.

He doesn't know if his older brother knows that his movies are alphabetized with the cases entirely free of dust. He doesn't know if his older brother knows that his bed is made to their father's incredibly high, wrinkle free standards. He doesn't even know if his older brother knows that he's sanitized every inch of the space, leaving no surface untouched. To Sam, this is a new phenomenon.

But he shouldn't be surprised. He knows that.

Dean's been clinging on to control since he returned from Purgatory. Since moving into the bunker a few mere days ago, he's barely heard from Dean, who has passed the time by mopping the floors and detailing his baby. Busy work. It's not what Dean does best, but it leads Sam to realize what's going on. He's desperate for normalcy and for their lives to make sense. For his life to make sense. For Purgatory to make sense.

Sam strolls down to his brother's room, half-expecting to find him dusting his new album collection. Instead, there's four plain, concrete walls with a bed stripped of blankets. Dean bought a new comforter that laid on top of the thermal cover that was once the bed's only occupant. His records aren't on the walls anymore, and the dog-eared, crumpled picture of Mom and Dean beside the desk lamp is missing.

He checks the bathroom. Nothing. His brother's shampoo and body wash is in the shower, along with the luxurious loofah with lotion that Dean just had to have after seeing it a few days ago at Walmart. Sam laughed it off, his brother's want of fancy items after thirty-four years of bloody rags and ripped t-shirts, but he knew. He knew Dean needed comfort and found it in loofahs and actually good smelling body soaps.

Sam checks the kitchen. Nothing. The pie Dean baked yesterday is on the counter, still wrapped in foil and waiting for its creator to sneak another slice at two in the morning. Except, the thing is, Dean hasn't been eating. There's meat and milk in the fridge, and they don't have to starve anymore, but Dean's not himself. Not who he used to be. No stupid comebacks and torn jeans or leather jackets.

He checks the laundry room. Nothing. Plaid shirts, jeans, socks, boxers. No Dean, though. Along with the clean freak and not eating and missing brother comes the fact that Dean now tucks his undershirt into his pants, which sag off of him if he's not wearing a belt. He doesn't wear pajama pants anymore and refuses to go shirtless, which, unless he's freezing or sick, is typically how his brother sleeps.

Finally, Sam checks the garage. And that's when he finds his brother, all six foot one of him, with his knees pulled up to his chest and visibly shaking. He's resting his back on the front passenger tire of the Impala with his arms wrapped tightly around his knees. Sam can hear the quivers in his loud breathing, and he freezes. The garage is fucking cold, and his brother is on the ground panicking alone.

He abandoned Dean for Amelia. He left his brother to rot in a place so terrible that Sam himself knows he wouldn't come back from. Couldn't. But Dean was so ready to see his little brother, to let him know that he made it out, to see all of Sam's valiant, relentless efforts to free him from a place seemingly worse than Hell. Sam's breath hitches in his throat, and he stops. Lets it soak in. Dean needs him now.

And he isn't going anywhere.

Except, when Sam sits down next to him and attempts to put his coat around Dean's shoulders, Dean jumps. Scoots away. And buries himself deeper. The coat falls to the ground between them, and Sam doesn't try again. Knows he should. But he can't. There are bruises from their latest hunt on the left side of his brother's face, accompanying the busted open chin that required nine stitches and the slash on the cheek that needed five. Bruises and cuts and scratches that were Sam's fault.

He didn't stand guard then, either. Thought it would be better off his way.

And now Dean won't even let him touch him in the fit of his panic. In the midst of it all, his brother isn't crying; he very rarely does. But panic attacks are bound to stir up some of his emotions, the ones he locked away long ago. This time, though, it's trembling and obvious heart racing and sweating through his shirt. Sam gulps and manages to touch his trembling hand to Dean's quivering shoulder. He flinches and stands this time, scrubbing his hands down his cleanly shaven face; Dean shaves everyday now.

"Dean," he says. "What's going on, man?"

As if it were obvious. As if he doesn't know what's happening.

His shirt is tucked perfectly into his jeans, his boots are free of dirt, and his shoulder blades are visible through the fabric. His chest is shuddering, his cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are bloodshot. Sam stands too, trying to inch his way closer to his brother. He needs to know he's there. Not leaving. Not going anywhere. Not letting him rot and die and live in the epic wasteland that Purgatory is.

All it takes is one step forward, and Sam finds his brother cold and hard and angry.

"Knock it off, Sam."

He shakes his head, confused by the harshness in his voice. Dean, even in his worst moods, doesn't normally _actually_ get mad at him. Even when he was guzzling demon blood basically by the pound, it was Dean's worry and disappointment that shined through the most, not the fact that he was pissed. Sam grew up in a world of his brother dropping anything and everything for him, and this is fucking strange.

"I'm just trying to help," he says.

"Yeah? Well don't."

He's still shaking wildly, crossing his arms over his chest and now leaning against the wall of the garage before sinking down to the floor. Sam doesn't know when the last time his brother slept was, but, judging by the heavy purple smudges beneath his eyes, he guesses it's been a while. Come to think of it, Sam hasn't seen his brother so much as lie down on the couch or his bed since they moved in days ago.

And so he persists. Sam sits down on the ground in front of his older brother.

"Sam."

"Don't 'Sam' me, Dean. You need to talk about this."

Dean doesn't bother with the "talk about what?" scenario and doesn't even take his chance to dig his claws into his brother's heart by accusing that he "wouldn't care anyway." He's so sick and tired of Dean's lack of trust, but he is aware that he hasn't done anything to prove him wrong. His brother has been through so much that Sam doubts he'll ever comprehend, and he hates that.

Back in October, right when Dean came back from Purgatory, Sam discovered Dean didn't tell him that he had ran out of the meds in his inhaler early and had suffered through nearly six months of constant agony in his chest and lungs. After the prescription had been filled, it took Sam another two weeks to realize Dean hadn't been eating and had lost a disgusting amount of weight. It shouldn't have taken any length of time.

Sam is Dean's brother, and he's supposed to notice.

"I don't need to 'talk' about anything. I'm fine."

"Uh huh. Because people who are fine do this."

And Dean's glare is just another punch to the gut.

"Leave me alone, Sam."

He shakes his head and scoots even closer. "No way. I've left you alone enough. You're not sleeping or eating. You're not even fucking watching TV or talking. Whatever is going on needs to be dealt with. I can't just watch you kill yourself." He tries to ignore Dean's rapid breathing, despite his anger and trying to keep calm. He tries to ignore Dean's fucking staring, but he ends up breaking away.

And, honestly, it's no surprise to Sam when there's heavy footsteps and a door slamming in his face.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Yeah, I'm sorry that this sucks, haha. Thanks for reading! =)


	5. Saving Touch

**Author's Note:** Sadly, I do not own the amazingly wonderful television show _Supernatural_ or any of its characters.

* * *

This is another one of my own that I wrote. Can't you tell I just re-watched season 8?

* * *

 _Saving Touch_

* * *

 _February 9, 2013_

It's been four months since Dean's mysterious upchuck from the bowels of Purgatory. Four months of trust issues, uncertainty, and Sam feeling like he's losing his Goddamn mind. This is almost worse than when he had Lucifer roaming around in his noggin, causing auditory and visual hallucinations after Castiel broke the wall that was just barely glued together by Death's hands and Dean's force in the first place.

Dean isn't himself. He knew that from the moment he got back, especially after it became painfully obvious to the older Winchester that the younger didn't bother looking for him. Sam has never wanted this life, and Dean knows that. But, now that he's actually here and witnessing the harsh reality that his brother may just be permanently changed, he wishes with all his soul that he could turn back the clock and never stop searching.

If he's honest with himself, he probably could have sprung Dean out of Purgatory. Winchesters are famous for never giving up and always fighting... Well, at least Dean Winchester is famous for that. All Sam has ever wanted is to get away from the hunting life, but it's not like he forgets about Dean. He often had nightmares when he was with Amelia about his brother, but never about the hunting life.

But, after the years and the running he's already done, he knows that he's made a crucial mistake. Dean no longer trusts him. Has no reason to. For a while, it seemed as those things were looking up, but bliss never lasts long in their world. The moment Sam found out about Benny and the fact that Dean was _hiding_ that he was a vampire was the moment he lost it. Dean trusted a _monster_ over his own brother.

He supposes, especially now, that he did it for his own peace of mind. Dean's been so emotionally detached and distant that Benny must have been a lifeline for him. And he doesn't even mention Castiel anymore. Sam tries to wrap his head around what happened, but Dean no longer talks about it. Most of the time, he can't even get his brother to respond to a simple question, so he's just stopped trying.

But, it's been seventeen hours since he's heard a peep from Dean, and that's the opposite of normal. He often hears his brother padding around the bunker at three in the morning. By the time he wakes up and wants to start his day around 6:30, Dean has been up all night watching TV. His brother, the alcohol junky, doesn't even drink anymore, and Sam knows with all his heart that he's seemingly forever dehydrated.

It's been a downward slope since his escape, and nothing seems to be getting better.

Sam stands from the chair he's been perched in in the library for hours now. He stretches out the aching muscles in his back and heads down the hall. He hasn't heard the shower, footsteps, or even so much as breathing in quite some time, even when he listens outside Dean's door for any signs of life. This time, he doesn't hesitate opening his door up, but he does stiffen when he sees the bed hasn't been touched.

Panic courses through his veins. Pumps through his heart. The walls close in, and he wonders if Dean's been missing this entire time. Sam swings the door open all the way and barrels inside, as if a fire is chasing him on his tails. "Dean!" he shouts. He searches the closet and doesn't see him, but then he hears something from his brother's private bathroom. A whimper? He doesn't take even a second before bursting in.

And that's when he finds Dean. Crumpled on the floor, hair matted to glistening forehead, wrapped around himself. His entire body is quivering with the force of an earthquake. The toilet seat is up, and Sam can tell by the stench of the room that Dean's been sick numerous times in here. He checks, and there's only pale yellow bile floating in the water. He swallows his own nausea, flushes the mess, and takes a seat next to Dean.

His brother immediately flinches and scoots away, not bothering to look at Sam but sits up straight, unfolding his body and leaving his hands in his lap. He's drenched from head to toe in sweat, and the younger Winchester still feels the intense shivering. "Dean?" he questions softly. "You okay?" Even though it's obvious he's not. His brother hiccups and stares intently at the wall, not daring to let Sam see an ounce of emotion.

And God only knows who long Dean's been fucking sitting here. Vomiting his guts out. Freezing on the tile floor. It makes Sam sick to even think about. He's dropped the ball again, and he is sure that, at this point, Dean won't trust him again until 2033. He can't even come check on him for real without contemplating if he really should. Sam pushes away the tears, the feeling to curl up next to his brother and lay in his lap.

Who knows how many sacrifices Dean has made. Sam can't even make one.

"Let's get you cleaned up," he whispers, careful not to make any sudden movements. It doesn't matter, though, because Dean twitches anyway. He ignores Sam's somewhat trembling hand and manages to push himself up. He doesn't say a single word, but he gives Sam such a look that he leaves the bathroom. The shower water turns on moments later, followed by wet coughs and probably more puking.

Sam leaves clean, dry clothes outside the door. It's the most he can do.

* * *

When Sam comes to check on his brother an hour later, he finds that Dean still isn't in bed. But at least he can see him right off the bat when he enters the room. He's lying on his side on the concrete floor, quivering immensely. "Shit," Sam murmurs to no one and grabs Dean's comforter off his bed. He kneels down and wraps the blond up, noticing how tense he becomes at even the simplest touch. "What're you doing down here?"

He doesn't expect a response, but his jaw nearly drops to the floor when he hears a quiet, "It's more comfortable down here."

Sam raises his eyebrows. "What do you mean, man? You have a bed right there." He points to it for emphasis.

Dean shrugs. Sam grabs another pillow off Dean's bed and lies down next to him, leaving space between them. He grimaces as his body makes contact with the cold, hard floor and crosses his arms over his chest. He has no idea why his brother has chosen to stay here as opposed to curling up on his memory foam mattress, but he's going to accept his win here: Dean talked. He hasn't even heard his brother's voice in nearly four days.

And that's when Dean untangles himself from the blanket and gives Sam some.

And that's when tears drip down Sam's cheeks.

* * *

 _February 10, 2013_

After a night of half-snoozing on the floor next to his brother, Sam groggily makes his move to go get Dean something to eat. This is what they've been struggling with the most since he got back from Purgatory. In some ways, Sam finds it easier to cope with Dean not talking than Dean not eating. Don't get him wrong; every bit of this sucks ass. He wishes he could hear the insanely lame jokes or snarky comebacks.

But he's left with a hollow shell of who his brother used to be. He figures Dean sleeps on the floor because that's how it was in Purgatory. He figures Dean chooses not to eat because that's how it was in Purgatory. He figures Dean chooses not to speak just in case because that's how it was in Purgatory. His clothes barely fit anymore, and it's a struggle to even get him to look Sam in the eye at this point.

He can only hope that, especially now since they're more stable and have a place for Dean to call home, he gets better. He microwaves a can of tomato and rice soup and grabs a bottle of blue Gatorade he stocked up on, especially since Dean's been barely drinking as well. He isn't sure if his brother can even handle swallowing medicine at this point or if his stomach can handle it, but he definitely needs some.

Dean grew more congested overnight, but at least he didn't throw up again. A fever was a given. The old Dean would have cuddled up next to Sam in an instant when he was that sick, but this Dean didn't even dare to touch him. Despite the delirium he's sure Dean is experiencing, he still managed to grab ahold of himself. Maybe even convinced himself that Sam wasn't actually there, and he was stuck in Purgatory.

Sam grabs the bottle of NyQuil, a box of tissues, and another heavy blanket from the hall closet. Dean is awake on the floor, but just barely. Sam sets the food and medicine on top of his brother's bare dresser. He's shifted to his right side instead of his left and looks as though he's having a seizure because of how hard he's shaking. "Dean," he says, watching his brother flinch and hearing his breathing sharpen. He always announces himself now when he's near Dean, just as a precaution.

His brother doesn't answer, but he hadn't been expecting a response to begin with. Sam crouches down on to the floor. Dark purple bags beneath his eyes accent Dean's pale, flushed face. Snot trickles out one of his nostrils. Freckles stand out even more. Cheeks sunken in. Teeth visibly chattering. Sam's heart all but breaks, and he decides right then and there that, even if it is small, he can help his brother now.

"Buddy, we need to get you off the floor. You're gonna get sicker."

Dean shakes his head. "M-More comf-comfortable here..."

Sam nods. "Yeah, I know. But doesn't sleeping in your bed sound nice?"

There's no answer this time.

"I know you're going to hate me for this, but I can't let you sleep down here again." And he scoops his too light brother off the floor. Tears stream down Dean's red cheeks as he tries to fight against him, but his body is too weak from malnutrition to do much more. Sam, on a whim, forgoes Dean's bed and moves him down the hall to his own bedroom. His bed isn't as comfortable as his brother's, but maybe this will be better.

Dean is still wrapped and bundled tightly in his comforter, but Sam knows it isn't enough. He retrieves the food, meds, and blanket he left in his brother's room. He places the blanket over him. The shivers die down almost right away. "Okay, you're gonna hate me even more now, but you need to eat and drink. It's tomato and rice soup and Gatorade. Think you can handle it?"

He receives a nod.

"Good," Sam says. He carefully spoon feeds his brother nearly half a bowl of soup and a quarter of a bottle of his favorite Gatorade before Dean's eyes start drooping, and he begins squirming into a new position on the bed. "Not just yet, buddy. You need some medicine." The NyQuil leaves Dean gagging and nearly puking over the side of the bed, but Sam grabs him gently and gives him another drink of Gatorade to wash the taste out.

Dean's trembling has increased again, and Sam knows he's probably pushed his brother to his limit. The younger Winchester sits down on the bed next to him and props himself up against the headboard, leaving enough space for the older to feel comfortable. Minutes pass, and Sam's sure his brother is fast asleep when he feels movement in the bed. Before he knows it, Dean has cuddled his face into his thigh.

Sam cards a quivering hand through his brother's damp hair.

For the first time in months, Dean doesn't flinch at his touch.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** I hope you guys enjoyed it! Thanks for reading! =)


End file.
